


and your light’s always shining on

by tomorrows



Series: and your light's always shining on [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, and harry is a keeper, and harry plays for liverpool, and then there is the champions league, footie!au, louis is a defender, louis plays for real madrid, welp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:06:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrows/pseuds/tomorrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis sends him lots of messages with exclamation marks and <em>so proud of u haz !! </em>and <em>that save was brilliant !</em> and <em>u look so cute when ur angry :p</em>. Harry replies back with lots of heart emojis and pictures of himself shirtless and still in bed, grinning like an idiot, and Louis saves all of Harry’s pictures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and your light’s always shining on

**Author's Note:**

> update: hi you can follow me [on tumblr](http://tornorrows.tumblr.com) now
> 
> title from mumford's 'reminder' 
> 
> general disclaimers blah blah blah sorry for any mistakes, we'll all live i'm sure

           The first time that Louis hears about Harry Styles it’s the Europa League final and Liverpool are playing Atletico Madrid. Reina, Liverpool’s keeper, fractures his wrist right before halftime and Harry is subbed in, even though he’d only recently been promoted to the first team – which had only happened because the second-choice keeper was off on a red card.

            Louis watches at home in Madrid as Harry comes on during the second half and even though Liverpool is trailing 2-0, Suarez scores a brace and 90 minutes are gone in the blink of an eye and then half of an hour of goalless extra time goes by even faster and unexpectedly, they go into penalties.

            In all fairness, Liverpool hadn’t necessarily been the underdogs of Europa League that season, but they surely hadn’t been the favorites by a long shot. Louis remembers his time in England fondly, remembers starting out in the United youth team and eventually being sold to Real Madrid at a tender 16 years of age by a now-retired and somewhere-up-there-with-the-big-guys Zidane. It feels like a dream to be at Real Madrid; feels like a dream to be discovered by Zinedine fucking Zidane and be playing besides Cristiano fucking Ronaldo. But he remembers England, will always remember England, and he remembers Liverpool. Not so fondly, though, because he was a United youth and Liverpool were, are, and will always be scum. That’s just footie for you – at United, at least.

            Louis doesn’t remember a Harry Styles, though. Doesn’t remember ever playing against a keeper with hair that wild or eyes that green. So when he watches the Europa League final he’s taken aback by this  _child_ who is somehow saving penalty after penalty in the first proper big match of his life, or so the commentators tell him. Harry Styles, 21 years old, newly promoted keeper for Liverpool Football Club, goes 5 for 5 with his penalty saves.

           Liverpool win Europa League, defeating Real Madrid’s hometown rivals Atletico Madrid.

           Louis tell himself to send this Harry Styles a thank you letter or something.

~

           The next time that Louis hears about Harry Styles (after the frenzy that followed his “jaw-dropping, historical performance” at the Europa League final, that is) it’s a few weeks into the beginning of the season and the Champions League draws are taking place. Louis nervously watches the gala at one of his teammate’s house and as it turns out, Liverpool, who had been promoted to the Champions League as a result of their Europa League title, end up in the Group of Death alongside Manchester United, Bayern Munich, and Barcelona.

           Louis almost feels bad for Liverpool because it’s obvious they don’t stand a chance, but having to lose to the top clubs of three separate leagues is just cruel. Fate seems to have it out for Harry Styles and Liverpool Football Club.

~

           And yet, somehow, things work out.

           Real Madrid’s game are never on the same day as Liverpool’s and even though Louis likes to spend the days before his matches meditating, he makes a note to follow this Group of Death closely because _it’s_   _the_   _fucking Group of Death_. And as it turns out, the Group of Death stands true to its name, but not for Liverpool. Somehow, someway, Liverpool make it through, right alongside Manchester United who top the table thanks only to the goal differential between them and Liverpool.

           For the second time in just six months, Harry Styles’ name is everywhere in the football world. Every article includes his picture, every commentator references him, every coach warns their strikers. Even Louis, at Real Madrid, ends up watching highlight videos with some of the strikers during practice, eyes wide at the way this Harry Styles kid seems to block every fucking shot. Gomez, Rooney, fucking Messi, just barely make it by this gangly giant who covers his entire box like his life depends on it. Liverpool, who’d only just been the joke of the Premiere League a year ago with their Torres debacle, are now the underdogs of the Champions League. They’re  _the team to watch_ and word spreads about future Balon d’Or nominations for this golden kid Harry Styles.

~

           When Louis Tomlinson left Manchester for Madrid there were stars in his eyes for months. He was 16, a defender who’d started out in a tiny little town called Doncaster, and now he was playing with the world’s most successful club and he was fucking terrified. Behind him in the goalie’s box was Casillas, easily the best goalkeeper in the world (although some think to hand that title off to this Harry Styles kid now. Louis doesn’t, and won’t.), and in front of him he’s got Alonso and Ozil and Kaka and leading them he’s got fucking Cristiano Ronaldo and Benzema and Higuain and so many others that Louis doesn’t understand for a second how he even makes it in the lineup every week, but he never forgets to thank his lucky stars when he does.

           He’s the only Englishman on the squad, although the coach, Mourinho, had spent a good chunk of his time at his beloved Chelsea and Xabi was Liverpool’s midfield maestro. But Cristiano had come from Manchester, too, and that makes Louis squirm happily every time they talk about  _back home_ because as soon as he’d arrived in Madrid, Cristiano had taken him under his wing and mentored him. Now, Cristiano still gives him tips about how to defend against certain strikers and Casillas still shouts helpful warnings and Xabi always catches his eye when making a pass and Louis feels like  _this is it_ , this what he was meant to do.

~

           During the winter Louis goes back home for the holidays and his birthday and he holds his mother close, kisses his sisters’ cheeks so often that they push him away, and spends too much of his time watching the lads on Sky Sport go on about Liverpool and Harry Styles.

           It’s New Year’s Eve when Louis meets Harry Styles for the first time. He’s in London for a New Year’s party at some of his friends’ flat; friends he’d known before Manchester United and before Real Madrid and before he realized he liked boys. But they’re his best mates, always have been, and distance had never been an excuse for them. Zayn, Liam, Niall, and Stan still fly out to Madrid during Clasicos against Barcelona and Louis always goes back to Manchester, or London, or even Doncaster for some of the bigger matches when he can. Sometimes he just flies back for no reason at all and stays for a few hours just to be with his boys.

           It’s half eleven and Zayn and Liam’s flat is packed with people Louis doesn’t know, names he only ever hears mentioned nonchalantly during Skype conversations, and faces he can’t tell apart from each other. Stan is at the corner in control of the music and Niall is making drinks Louis is pretty sure will cause liver failure and Liam and Zayn are being the warm, conversational hosts/boyfriends that they were practically born to be.

           Louis doesn’t mean to be jealous, he really doesn’t, because he loves Liam and he loves Zayn and he loves Liam and Zayn together, but that doesn’t make it easier to watch them hold hands and kiss lips and do it all openly and without a hint of hesitancy or fear. Louis is a football player and not just any football player, but a defender at one of the biggest clubs in the world with the spotlight on him constantly and literally (they don’t call the Bernabeu  _the Cathedral of Football_  for nothing). And as much as Louis wishes he could say that things like prejudice and racism and discrimination don’t happen in footie, it just isn’t that way. The same players that wear  **RESPECT**  on their armbands are the ones that snicker in locker rooms and use words like  _faggot_  and  _poof_.

           So Louis is a world class football player who refuses to come out and he’s lonely in Madrid because all he does is focus, focus, focus, to the point where even Cristiano Ronaldo, the obsessive perfectionist, offers to take him out to just relax. But Louis doesn’t relax, doesn’t get laid, and spends too many showers wanking off to boys he’ll never get to hold. And that’s why, with 25 minutes left in the year 2012, Louis leaves his best friends’ party and goes for a walk without any real destination in mind.

           It takes him 15 minutes and a couple of wrong turns, but somehow Louis ends up at a bakery hidden in plain sight, the  **OPEN**  sign blinking a colorful pattern of Christmas colors. Normally, Louis has to duck his head and hide from cameras to get anywhere, but he’s far from “home” and it’s New Year’s Eve and any paparazzi that’s around is too drunk to bother taking a photo of this lonely boy without a proper place to call home.

           He walks in, surprised that the place is even open, and exhales a sigh of relief when he notices that it’s practically empty save for the pale, tattooed bloke by the register. Louis flicks his fringe out of his eyes, fingers numb in his pockets and hair a bit wet from the snow, and makes his way over to the guy with his head buried in some book that’s at least 500 pages.

            “Hi,” the guy looks up and smiles, “Happy New Year. What can I get you?”

           “Hi,” Louis clears his voice nervously and looks past this guy with the bleach blond hair and lip piercing to read the menu behind his head. It’s written in chalk by what was probably a very giddy little girl and Louis wonders if this guy, covered in loose, dark clothing, wrote the menu. He wonders if the chocolate fudge cupcake is as good as it sounds and he wonders what the fuck he’s doing at an empty bakery in the middle of London with 15 minutes left in the year.

           Before Louis can change his mind and walk out, a loud laugh comes from the kitchen and a boy walks out, giggling stupidly with a little girl in his arms, and Louis doesn’t know that laugh, but he knows that hair and he knows those eyes and he knows that boy, knows Harry Styles’ face much better than he’d like to.

           “Hi!” the little girl shouts, noticing Louis immediately.

           Harry looks up from where the little girl is sitting on his hip, finding Louis’ eyes easily and Louis swears Harry’s eyes get brighter.

           “Is this the world famous Louis Tomlinson?” Harry chuckles unbelievingly, eyes not moving.

           Louis feels like he can’t move and that’s stupid, really, because Louis has met – and played with – a handful of awfully huge superstars and he’s been star-struck on more than one occasion, but never quite like this.

            “The one and only?” It comes out as a question, barely audible, but Louis hadn’t intended for it to.

            Harry lips turn up in a warm smile and he walks over, places his hand out, “Harry Styles. S’really great to meet you. Really enjoy watching Real play, you guys are killing it.”

            Louis wants to laugh because they’re not killing it, not really. Real’s a few points behind Barcelona in the Spanish Primera and even though they’re still strong in the Champions League, their performances haven’t been spectacular and the rumors of troubles within the club have been more vicious than ever.

            “You’re one to talk, Mr. Liverpool,” Louis finally chirps up, “Hear you guys are doing pretty okay yourself back here.”

            He moves to shake Harry’s hand and feels the tips of his ears turn red because fuck, Harry’s hands are so warm and they’re really quite big and he’s a goalie so that should be expected, but Louis can’t help but peek a glance at their entwined hands and bite his lip at the size difference.

            Harry grins, “Guess we’re doing okay, nothing big.” It’s cheeky and it’s modest and Louis can’t help but fucking grin back as he reluctantly pulls his hand away because of course this  _Golden Kid of Goalkeeping_  is a fucking charmer.

~

            And that’s how Louis finds himself ringing in the New Year with Harry Styles, world famous goalkeeper, and Harry’s friends Lou and Tom, who own the bakery, and baby Lux who happens to be Harry’s favorite person in the world.

            He stands next to Harry when the countdown starts, Lux now running around the bakery excitedly and shouting numbers out of order, biting out of the chocolate fudge cupcake Harry had recommended, and they watch the flatscreen in the corner of the bakery as it shows fireworks and confetti and London loud and alive at midnight. He can feel the warmth radiate off of Harry as his fingers brush just barely against his own and Louis feels the most comfortable he has in a really long time.

            “Happy New Year, Louis Tomlinson.”

            Louis turns to Harry, whose eyes are now glued to Lux as she blows bubbles at her parents while they share a New Year’s kiss. He notices then that his television back home doesn’t really do Harry Styles justice; with his creamy skin and plump lips, chocolaty curls and thick dimples that Louis want to press his lips against just to feel the contours.

            “Happy New Year, Harry Styles,” he whispers quietly.

            Harry turns to him, a soft, hazy look in his eyes and smiles for the hundredth time that night, “Sorry you didn’t get your New Year’s kiss.”

            Louis swears his heart stops for a second before he realizes that Harry doesn’t know about him, doesn’t know he fancies boys. No one does – no one outside his closest friends and family, at least, and Louis remembers to breathe again.

           “Me too.”

           “Maybe next year, ya?”

           “Maybe,” Louis tries to hide his grin and notices, just for a second, how Harry’s eyes quickly move down to his lips before they return back to Louis’ eyes.

           “Next year, then.”

~

            Louis spends the next few hours in the bakery with Harry, who refills Louis’ tea every twenty minutes and recommends pastry after pastry and they talk for a really long time. So long that Tom throws them the keys to lock up when they’re done and heads out around 1 AM with Lux knocked out in Lou’s arms.

           Harry asks Louis a lot of questions, about Doncaster and Manchester and ten times as many about Madrid. He confesses to Louis that he’d love to play at a club like Madrid or Barcelona, but Liverpool is home to him and Liverpool had given him everything, from a salary to support his mother and pay for his sister’s uni, to an opportunity to make his dreams a reality. Harry chokes up a bit talking about his mum, how she had a really tough time when he was younger and his dad left them, but he speaks passionately and with a glimmer in his eyes that Louis can’t help but smile at because Harry is happy and Harry is talented and Harry is passionate and Harry has a place he can call home.

           Louis doesn’t tell Harry about his secrets, doesn’t share with him how the left side of his bed is always cold and how he misses the pitter-patter of the constant drizzle he can’t seem to find in Madrid. But he tells Harry about Xabi Alonso, because Alonso played at Liverpool when Harry was still in the youth team, and Harry’s pupils quite literally dilate as Louis tells anecdote after anecdote.

           “You should come to Madrid sometime,” Louis takes a sip of his lukewarm tea, “Watch a game or two. M’sure Xabi would love to meet you.”

           Harry’s cheeks turn a bright red as he looks down to fidget with his fingertips, “Na,” he scoffs, “Probably s’never even heard of me.”

           It’s self-deprecating and Louis hates that because Harry is fucking brilliant; how does he not see that? Louis can’t understand how Harry could possibly think that no one has noticed him and his skill or the fact that he’s the only thing anyone has talked about in the football world for nearly eight months straight.

           “We’ve all watched your Champions League matches, you know.”

           And Harry finally looks at that so Louis continues, “Xabi talks about Liverpool a lot; talks about you like you’re going to ‘save them.’ Swears you’re gonna win the Premiere League.”

           Harry smiles so wide this time that Louis wonders if his dimples must hurt from being etched so deeply into his skin and just like everything else about Harry, it’s endearing as fuck, those stupid dimples.

           “He says that bloody shit every year though, but I think he may be onto something this time around.”

           And with that, Harry barks a loud laugh and Louis can’t contain his grin any longer and they bicker like little kids about United and Liverpool for the next hour, not a hint of malice in either of their voices.

~

           Louis goes back to Madrid two days later with Harry’s number saved into his phone and for the first time in a long time, Louis is excited and jumpy and all he can see when he closes his eyes are emerald irises.

~

           The third time that Louis hears about Harry’s name all over the football world is in mid-February when Harry puts out a statement coming out and Louis feels like he can’t breathe for an entire week. Harry doesn’t text him about it and Louis doesn’t bother texting him either; just needs a few weeks for it to really sink in because no one comes out when they’re a football player. It doesn’t happen  _at all_ and for a long time afterward, all anyone talks about is how this Harry Styles has set a precedent, how he’s so brave and strong and courageous and Louis hears it all, especially doesn’t miss the name-calling and putdowns because that’s everywhere, too. He almost feels bad because he knows Harry must be going through some shit back home.

           And then he watches a highlight clip on Sky Sport where some prick from a regulation team decides to spit on Harry after a call had been called against them and Louis feels like his chest might explode.

           Louis hadn’t said anything to Harry, no specifics, at least, but they  _had_  texted constantly after New Year’s. Little texts about practice sessions and  _sleep tight x_ and links to goofy cat videos and recipes to cupcakes Louis demanded be baked for him next time he’s in England. It didn’t seem like much, but it was for Louis, because each silly picture and each pointless text made Louis smile a little brighter and Louis knew, without a doubt in his mind, that going three weeks without talking to Harry was a prick move at best.

           And watching the clip of Harry getting spit on only makes Louis feel a thousand times worse because Harry was –  _is_  – his friend and even though there’s a ton of support, Louis knows that Harry must need some sort of confirmation from those closer to him that _he’s okay_ , _he’s still Harry_ , and _he’s still loved_ no matter who he loves.

           He sends Harry a message on Whatsapp that night. It’s no profound declaration of love and support, just a stupid link to a video of the top ten cutest clips of kittens cuddling with nothing but a  _sleep tight haz xxx_  at the end.

~

           When Louis wakes up that morning, there’s a message from Harry.

_love a cute pussy x_

           Louis records a sound clip of himself laughing because he can’t seem to stop and he sends it to Harry immediately, before he even bothers getting out of bed. Harry replies back in seconds.

_saving that forever:) ! xx_

~

           The weeks go by in the blink of an eye and Louis watches as both Real Madrid and Liverpool continue to make it through the Champions League and for a while all he can feel is fucking ecstatic because his club is doing great – albeit, not so much in the Spanish league – and Harry texts him all the time about how excited he is because this is his first time with all of this and everything feels like fireworks for him. And Louis is so proud of him, records all of Liverpool’s matches and watches them in bed late at night when Harry’s just woken up in England. Louis sends him lots of messages with exclamation marks and  _so proud of u haz !!_ and  _that save was brilliant !_  and  _u look so cute when ur angry :p_. Harry replies back with lots of heart emojis and pictures of himself shirtless and still in bed, grinning like an idiot and Louis saves all of Harry’s pictures.

           But then, before Louis can even think about it, Real Madrid beats AC Milan to get into the finals of the Champions League and Liverpool just barely knocks out Borussia Dortmund with a 96th minute away goal and the date has been set and come the third Saturday of May, Real Madrid and Liverpool are set to face off at  _Stade de France_  for the Champions League final.

~

           When Louis and Harry see each other for the first time since New Year’s in London, their teams are lined up and facing each other during the Champions League anthem. The air is thick and Louis tries to look anywhere but at Harry, and yet somehow, because he’s probably a masochist, he finds Harry’s emerald eyes a few meters away from him and he smiles. He feels a bit of tension leave his shoulders when Harry smiles back, a soft and fond look in his eyes, and he bites his lips. Harry grins even wider and Louis notices as he gives him a thumbs up from where his hands are placed on Gerrard’s shoulders.

~

           The first half of the match goes by hectically and ends goalless, but that doesn’t say much. Louis finds himself constantly sprinting up and down and across the field, blocking and covering and deflecting with his whole body. It’s terrifying but Louis feels so alive; can feel his pulse in his veins and the stadium lights on his back and the cool spring breeze on his skin. It’s the perfect atmosphere for a Champions League final and when Louis watches Ronaldo and Higuain and Benzema on the attack, he can’t help but hope that maybe Harry will fuck up or react a millisecond too slowly.

~

           He doesn’t fuck up, though, and they go into the locker rooms with a nil-nil scoreline and the stadium’s deafening cries ringing in their ears all throughout halftime.

           When they get back on the field for the second half of the match, Louis has finally managed to settle the nerves in his stomach, but that only lasts for the first seven minutes until he watches, from somewhere on Liverpool’s half of the field, as Ramos jumps in the air for a header and doesn’t land quite right. The crowd erupts and the noise level increases tenfold and Louis can’t see quite as clearly but when he looks up at the huge screens, all he sees is Harry knocked out on the ground, droplets of red gushing out on his forehead.

           He thinks about running towards him, about pushing everyone aside to take care of him because fuck this, Harry is  _his_  friend and Louis needs for him to be okay; needs for Harry to finish his first Champions League final properly.

           But he can’t, is the problem. He can’t move or breathe. He can’t do anything but watch as Liverpool’s med team rushes to the goalposts and lifts Harry's head to inspect him. The four medics cover Harry’s entire figure for a while and he can see both Liverpool players and his own teammates hover over them, worried glances and lips bitten at the sight. The crowd continuous at the same bleeding volume and the air is ten times thicker than it was five minutes ago and Louis wonders if maybe the world has stopped moving all together.

           But then the crowd around Harry moves aside and Harry stands up on his own, a stark white bandage wrapped around his head, a tiny spot of blood seeping through. Louis watches as Harry gives the stadium a half smile, shows them a thumbs up and waves, a slow, silly chuckle escaping from his brights lips, his green eyes glimmering with naivety and youthful excitement.

           Louis finally breathes again and laughs, mostly at himself, because this stupid boy is going to be the death of him, definitely.

~

           No one scores the entire second half.

~

           They go into extra time and Louis’ legs feels like Jello and there’s a queasy, nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach and still, no one scores.

~

           Penalties. They go into penalties and Louis drowns out the sound of the stadium and he drowns out the sound of his teammates discussing who’ll take the penalties because even though he doesn’t have asthma, Louis doesn’t feel like he can breathe right now. A ball boy throws him a bottle of water from the sideline and Louis catches it, gulps down the cold water and tries to empty out his mind. He throws the bottle to ground and leans over, resting his palms on his knees as he exhales deeply,  _in through your nose, out through your mouth_ , he repeats like a mantra.

           “Louis!”

           He looks up when he hears his name and notices that his entire team is facing him. He can read the tension in their shoulders; the worried creases on their foreheads, because they all watched the Europa League final and they know what Harry Styles is capable of. And they also know Louis gets on with Harry better than he does with anyone else on his team – or any team, for that matter.

          _“I can’t,”_   he begs before they can even ask, “I can’t.”

           Some of the players frown at him, their brows furrowed deep.

           “You can,” Cristiano turns to him, “You have to.”

           Louis tries to protest, he does. He tries to plead and beg and tell them that there’s a better chance he’ll piss himself than score, but they don’t listen to him and Louis hates himself for a second because this is team and this is their chance to get their 10th Champions League title and Louis owes them this much. He owes them for discovering him and for giving him a home and a salary and a spotlight and warm embraces when he was ready to collapse, like he is right now.

           A whistle is blown and Louis knows that it means it’s time for the penalty shootouts but that doesn’t stop the tears from prickling at his eyes.

           He stands with his teammates a few meters from the Liverpool team. Both sides stand in a line with a tangle of arms holding onto each other, whispering prayers to deities who have no part in the result of the next 15 minutes. It’s just them, their teammates, their fans, and the entire world holding their breath for the next 15 minutes.

~

           Xabi Alonso takes the first penalty of their shootouts and Harry moves a millisecond too slowly and it goes in. Louis doesn’t watch.

~

           Harry exhales deeply after the first penalty and Louis can see, from where he’s standing and watching Casillas take his first penalty, that Harry’s eyes are watery and his lips are a deep red from being bitten so hard.

           Casillas blocks the first and second penalty but the third goes in.

~

           Harry blocks the second and third shots, easily.

           He blocks Cristiano fucking Ronaldo from scoring.

~

           Casillas blocks the fourth penalty and it’s Louis turn to take Real Madrid’s fifth and final penalty.

~

           Real Madrid are on their fifth penalty and they’ve only got one in. Liverpool have also only gotten one goal in but their final penalty is going to be taken right after Louis  takes his so he tells himself to calm down, the fate of the game doesn’t rest on his shoulders; anything can happen.

           Louis walks up the penalty x in front of the post and keeps his eyes trained on grass. He kicks at the dirt a bit, exhales quietly through his nose. He can hear  _Tom-lin-son_  being chanted from behind the goalpost and suddenly the chant spreads through the stadium and before he knows it, his teammates are behind him and stadium is behind him and all he hears is  _Tom-lin-son_.

           He looks up and Harry is staring right at him, eyes bright as always. They scream  _I’m fucking terrified, Lou_  but they’re not spiteful or threatening. They’re nervous and worried and they’re calling out for Louis to just go ahead, stop making it hurt, and to please just rip off the band-aid because they both know what’s going to happen.

~

           Louis aims for the bottom-left corner.

           Harry moves to the right.

~

           Louis doesn’t look at Harry after he kicks. He just turns away, doesn’t bother to see if he makes it in, but the sound that erupts from the stadium explains more than enough. He can’t get himself to look up at his teammates so he just walks back to where they are, lets himself be enveloped by tight embraces and excited shouting and keeps his eyes on the grass the whole time.

~

           It turns out that Harry is Liverpool’s fifth and final penalty kicker.

           Louis can’t stop himself from watching as Harry moves to take his spot on the x. He watches as Harry straightens up and the muscles in his black flex underneath the soft green color of his kit. All Louis can think about is how nicely Harry’s kit matches his eyes.

~

           Harry misses his penalty.

           Louis wants to yell at Harry’s entire team for doing that to him, for putting him under that kind of pressure. How could they have possibly expected him to deliver that kind of result? How could they have put that kind of weight on his Harry’s shoulders? Why would they do that do him?

~

           Louis watches as Harry falls to his knees in front of the box, Real Madrid players running around him to jump at Casillas.  _La Decima_. The 10 th. They’ve finally won it. They’ve won the Champions League title for a historic tenth time  and all Louis can do is watch as Harry’s whole body collapses on the field, his face in the grass.

           Without thinking about it, Louis moves towards his boy, kneels down beside Harry and lifts his head off of the field carefully, wrapping him up in his arms. Harry doesn’t move for a few minutes, just cries into the nook of Louis’ shoulders and Louis lets him. He lets Harry’s whole body shake with muffled sobs in his arms and does nothing but hold him tight, one arm around his shoulders and the other holding the back of Harry’s head where he softly presses kisses to the top of Harry's damp hair.

           Eventually, Harry’s hands move to clamp tightly, almost like he’s begging – for what, Louis doesn’t know – around Louis’ jersey and Louis presses his lips to Harry’s ear and whispers,  _“I’m so fucking in love with you.”_

~

           There’s a huge celebration in Madrid when they get back home. The crowd at the  _Plaza de Cibeles_  stretches for miles. There are police officers everywhere and the team decides that Louis be the first to present the trophy to the crowd and they scream so loud Louis can’t help but cry.

           They get medals from the king and queen, both long time Real fans, and Louis doesn’t even bother to wipe the tears from the corners of his eyes this time. He accepts the medals, accepts the hugs and kisses and flowers, and he waves like he was taught to for the crowds because he is happy. He’s fucking ecstatic.

~

           Real Madrid’s final game of the season is against Rayo and they win 3-0 at home, but Barcelona are 3 points ahead of them in the tables and they end up winning La Liga. Louis doesn’t mind, though, because they’ve got  _La Decima_  and that’s worth a thousand league titles.

~

           A week after the Champions League final and the day after Real Madrid’s last league game, Liverpool plays their final match of the season against Manchester United. The teams are so close in points that whoever wins the match becomes Premiere League champions. Louis flies straight to Liverpool right after Real’s match.

~

           He wants to buy tickets all the way up front but the seats have been sold out for weeks and he just barely manages to get a seat up in a box. He doesn’t think it’s the best idea either, considering the recent turn of events, but he does it anyway and watches the game intently the whole time. The Liverpool team is welcomed by a loud home crowd who immediately belts out  _You’ll Never Walk Alone_  and Louis may have been a Manchester youth but he can’t help the lump that forms in his throat when the anthem is sung in unison.

~

           Liverpool end up beating Manchester United by two goals and a clean sheet.

           Harry is the first to lift the trophy.

~

           Louis’ not sure what he’s doing, if he’s honest. It’s probably a mistake, a really big one that he’s going to regret for the longest fucking time, but he’s made a lot of mistakes recently and not taking this chance would be the biggest.

           He walks into the locker room and for a minute no one notices. Harry’s back is to him but he can hear his voice crack with laughter and everyone is so fucking happy it’s actually contagious. But then Henderson spots him, nudges Carragher, and that passes on until the whole room is quiet and Harry is the last to turn around, silent.

           “Hey,” Louis breathes out nervously.

           Harry looks at him, his eyes sparkling and for the first time, Louis can’t read them.

           “Hey,” Harry finally whispers, breaking out in a soft smile.

           His eyes are fond.

           Louis takes a few steps forward until he’s standing right in front of Harry, who is shirtless, who is grinning, who is sweaty, who is officially a champion for the first time.

           “Proud of you,” Louis smiles. He can see from the corner of his eye how Harry’s hand flinches the tiniest bit, like he’s dying to just touch Louis; to hold him even if just for a second, even if in front of his whole team.

           “I, um,” he clears his throat, “I forgot to give you something back in, uh,” he looks down at his feet, “back in Paris.”

           It’s dead silent in the room but Louis can barely hear Harry’s soft exhale of,  _“Ya?”_

           And Louis doesn’t say anything this time, just looks up at Harry’s bright and eager eyes and smiles. He takes the final step and cups Harry’s soft face in his tiny hands and presses his lips to Harry’s and kisses him like he’s been dying to all year and in the background he can hear the entire team cheer them on.

~

           New Year’s Eve 2013 finds Louis in London at Liam and Zayn’s flat once again.

           This time there is no jealousy or loneliness or empty bakeries. Instead, there is a boy with his arms wrapped around him from behind and smooth lips pressed to his ear counting down the new year in soft whispers.

_“Happy One Year, Lou.”_

           Harry presses a kiss to his earlobe.

           It’s not the New Year’s kiss he was promised a year ago, but it’s a kiss nonetheless and it’s from Harry and Louis can’t help but nuzzle back against his boy, eye closed and grinning blissfully.

            “Happy New Year, love, now turn around and kiss me properly.”

**Author's Note:**

> welp if you follow footie then you can guess why this was written
> 
>  
> 
> [on tumblr](http://tornorrows.tumblr.com)


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